


Pastel and Ivory

by sabswrites



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Who am I, artist, musician - Freeform, painter, really it's so disgustingly soft, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 23:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11091939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabswrites/pseuds/sabswrites
Summary: “That doesn’t sound strange at all!” Phil assured him brightly.“I’m the same way! Sometimes when you get an idea, you have to just get it all down before it flees your mind, you know?”Dan looked up and smiled, wider and more genuine than his previous one. “Yeah, I know.”





	Pastel and Ivory

**i**

Despite his sunny aura, Phil found himself most comfortable in the moonlight. His creativity was simply more responsive amongst the stars. Besides, there was something so incredibly comforting about not having anything expected of him. In the few hours between midnight and five in the morning, the entirety of London felt absent. In the daylight, obligation weighed him down, a desire to assist in every way he could, but under the moon, nothing was required of him. He could have the entire night to just himself and his art; soothing and blissful. 

It was one in the morning, and he found himself on his balcony accompanied by his easel and oil pastels. The fairy lights that hung across the doorframe provided just enough light for him to work comfortably, and the slight, summer breeze added to his artistic ambience. Another reason for his partiality towards the evening was the creative inspiration that came with the nocturnal world. Phil figured that the night sky would always be the most lovely view in the world to him; its twinkling stars and planetary glimpses held a certain magic. He smiled to himself as a gust of wind kissed his face, reached for a pink pastel, and began. 

Around an hour later, Phil took a step back to admire his handiwork. He had originally set out to draw a cherry blossom tree, as they reminded him of his dream to one day visit Japan, but the petals ended up looking more like jellyfish, so he had gone with where that took him. Proud with what he had so far accomplished, he picked up a navy blue color to add nuances of waves to the oceanic backdrop. He lifted his hand and pressed the tip of the color softly to the canvas. Just as he began to move the crayon, he was rattled by a soft, yet sudden noise. With his mind absent, Phil’s hand dragged across the canvas, creating a solid blue line that vandalized his artwork.

“Ugh!” he dismayed, registering his error. He grabbed another pastel in attempt to repair the damage, however just as he began coloring, the noise returned, throwing him off again. “Damn it.” Phil muttered to himself. He sighed and set the color down. The sound had not ceased, and Phil had now clearly defined it as piano music. _Who was playing the piano at two in the morning?_ He first thought. Then again, one may ask ‘Who oil paints on their balcony at two in the morning?’ and that would not be unfair. He had not located the music’s source until a tired voice groaned from below. 

“Shit, that’s not right,” it said as the music was once again cut off. Whatever the error was, it would have completely gone over Phil’s head, because to him, the previous few notes had sounded as beautiful as any.

In hopes of locating the enigmatic musician, Phil cautiously leaned over the metal railing and peered at a balcony a few floors below his own to the right. 

Sitting on a tall, wooden stool behind an impressive looking keyboard, was a man with curly brown hair. It was hard to make out any further details from such a distance, but he appeared ardently focused on the keys in front of him. The tune began again, and Phil smiled softly. Albeit distracting at first, the song was quite enchanting, and he decided that it was something he could work to.

Another half hour passed, as the two artists flooded the night with their retrospective mediums. Phil paused to examine his hands, which were stained with a rainbow of paint residue, when he noticed that the music had also stopped. He waited a few moments in earnest for the music to start again, but was met only with a silent breeze. 

Phil curiously made his way back towards the fence, and looked back at the man. He now appeared to be fervently scribbling something down. Probably music notes, Phil figured. He continued to gaze at the pianist, marveling in the apparent passion that overtook him. The stranger's features were a bit more visible now, and if Phil squinted through the thick lenses of his glasses, he could make out traces of a smile. It was a wonderful thing to see somebody so dedicated to their artform, it was a feeling he resonated with.

Sudden exhaustion overcame him as he let out a yawn. He tilted his head towards his left shoulder to cover his mouth, and extended his right arm out fiercely. To Phil’s horror, he felt the oil pastel he once held onto firmly fly out of his hand and straight for the pianist.

“Fuck, what the hell?” the man exclaimed as the oil pastel hit the back of his head. He looked up, and immediately caught sight of Phil’s terrified and apologetic expression. “Did you throw something at me?!?” he called in an affronted voice.

“No! I mean well, yes, technically…It wasn’t on purpose! er.. I’m really sorry it just slipped and…” Phil looked at the man’s unimpressed countenance and let his stringy explanation fade out.

“Um, It’s alright I guess…” The stranger replied uncertainly. He bent down and grabbed the flyway oil pastel. “Do you want me to try and throw this back up?” He asked, readying his stance.

“No no no!” Phil blurted out, perhaps a bit too loudly. “Sorry, it’s just that these were pretty expensive and I don’t want to risk breaking one,” he explained. 

“Okay, well I guess you could stop by tomorrow and pick it up.”

“Oh,” Phil replied disappointedly. 

“Is there a problem with that?” The man asked with exasperation.

“Well, it’s just that I’m almost done with this piece and I need that particular color to finish so…”

“Don’t artists usually have extra materials?” He tried.

“I mean yes, but I don’t have another pink exactly like that one, and I know you’re going to ask me why I can’t simply finish it tomorrow, but you see I was sort of in the zone and the creativity sometimes doesn’t last that long and…”

“I get that,” the musician interrupted. He paused for a moment before continuing. “Okay fine, you can just come get it now I guess.”

“Actually?” Phil asked excitedly. “Thanks loads! I really appreciate it!”

“Yeah, yeah, It’s apartment 20A by the way.”

“Got it. I’ll be right down!”

-

Phil quickly changed out of his pajama bottoms and into his favorite jeans. He then brushed his teeth again and picked up a comb to fix his hair a bit. He look the lift down to the fourth floor and began his search for apartment 409. Guided by his less than stellar navigation skills, he made his way down a hall leading to 415, to a recess between 430 and 431, to the trash chute room, before he at last found himself standing in front of 409. He adjusted his hair a final time before knocking shyly on the door. 

A few eerie seconds passed before the door handle slowly turned, and a lanky figure emerged. Phil’s first thought was the man was unjustified in dimmed light of two in the morning He was pretty. Clothed grey pyjama bottoms and the softest looking t-shirt Phil had ever seen. The man looked him up and down before flatly saying, “It’s been like fifteen minutes.”

Phil immediately broke the eye contact they had formed and shook his head quickly. “I’m so so sorry to keep you waiting. I don’t best sense of direction and I sort of got lost a few times, but uh, I’m Phil Lester! Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand uncertainly.

The musician smiled as he lightly shook Phil’s hand. “Dan Howell.” His eyes suddenly snapped as he realized how long they had been shaking hands. “Come in, please,” he said as he released Phil’s hand. “I have your crayon thing back here, one second.” 

As Phil stepped in, his eyes quickly darted around the room before growing considerably wider. Dan’s apartment could have been mistaken for a musical rubbage pile. Sheet music littered the dark wooden floors, spilled across the countertops, and crept up the walls. Amidst the hurricane of papers, Phil saw a few songs he was familiar with; Ave Maria, Moonlight Sonata. However, some of the sheets held markings so numerous and complex, they gave him a headache just looking at them.

“Yeah, I know it’s a bit untidy,” Dan said sheepishly as he attempted to gather a handful of papers only to have them ungracefully slip through his fingers.

“A bit?” Phil replied astounded, still marveling at what could only be described as the remnants of a musical hurricane. He turned his head to witness Dan’s struggle, he appeared to be getting increasingly frustrated, and Phil instinctively rushed to help. Their hands brushed awkwardly as they both attempted to declutter a small area of the floor in vain.

Dan cleared his throat a bit, “I-- uh, I had begun sorting things out a bit before you arrived but I got this sudden, weird rush of inspiration and I had to write something down. It’s sounds strange I know. I bet you probably think I’m some crazy hermit,” he said in fumbling fragments. “Which wouldn’t be entirely false,” he added with a small grin.

“That doesn’t sound strange at all!” Phil assured him brightly. “I’m the same way! Sometimes when you get an idea, you have to just get it all down before it flees your mind, you know?”

Dan looked up and smiled, wider and more genuine than his previous one. “Yeah, I know.”

They continued clearing piles as they made small talk. Dan explained that he was a professional pianist, “I mainly play at galas, and fancy parties, and such. I do write my own music though. People seem to like it enough, I suppose. Although the best part of the job is definitely the free hors d'oeuvres.”

Phil giggled at that. “I do illustrations for children's’ books,” he shared. “It’s nice because they tend to appreciate art more than adults do, and seeing them getting excited about my art always makes me really happy.”

Talking to Dan was so easy. It felt more like a natural reflex than just a means of filling the silence. With most people, even people he had known for a while, Phil was graceless. Words coming out wobbly and sentences bordering on senseless. Yet somehow with Dan, it all felt right. 

“That sounds wonderful,” Dan responded with a gentle smile. “Most people who hear my music could probably care less,” he mumbled.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Phil quickly reassured.

A pregnant moment passed where neither did nor said anything. There was an indescribable connection being formed, and although neither acknowledged it, both artists felt something new. As he snapped out of his reverie, Dan looked back at the floor and cleared his throat. He begun to speak, but the words fell apart and onto the pile.

Phil straightened out the paper stack he held in his hands and meticulously set it aside. “Not that I mind helping you out but uh, I still do want my pastel back.” Hearing the words aloud sounded much harsher than Phil meant, so he attempted to lighten the comment with a compliment. “These do truly look amazing though. I mean, I don’t ‘speak music’ or anything, but yeah. These are, wow. Maybe you could play something for me sometime?”

Dan froze. It was rare that someone specifically asked to hear his own music before, and even rarer that pretty boys did. After gaping a second longer than necessary, he quickly nodded. “Yeah, sometime maybe. I mean yes. Definitely, sometime.” He paused and looked around the room for a moment. “One second.”

He left Phil and ran off into a room within a wall to the right of the sliding doors which led to the balcony. Phil shrugged and continued sorting through the papers. He hadn’t been lying to Dan a second ago, he thought. The songs truly looked amazing, and he really did hope that Dan kept his word and played for him sometime.

Moments later, Dan emerged from the room holding a familiar pink color. “Remembered where I placed it,” he claimed as he held it out in front of him proudly.

Phil stood up and took the object from Dan graciously. “Thanks loads!”

“You’re welcome,” Dan whispered, popping a slight dimple. 

“Well,” Phil began, almost sadly, “It’s ridiculously late now, so I’d better go.”

Dan’s face fell ever so slightly as he agreed. “Oh yeah, I have work tomorrow. But uh, perhaps I’ll see you out on the balcony in the middle of the night again sometime?” He asked with a laugh.

“Perhaps.”

**ii**

Dan checked for any sign of Phil each night throughout the following week. It was silly, he knew that. While it was true Phil had expressed wishes of hearing his music, surely he was only being polite. Right? It was stupid either way, Dan decided, to stay up well past any respectable time at the slight chance some boy may be painting out on his balcony, (even if he was a really nice looking boy).

Just as he began to walk back inside, he heard a vaguely familiar voice gasp in pain. Dan turned around and look up to see a pajama clad Phil Lester cradling his right hand as he winced.

“You alright?” he called warily. 

Phil spun around suddenly before interlocking eyes with Dan. “I think I broke a finger,” he replied jokingly.

“Oh dear, spacial awareness.”

Phil rolled his eyes and leaned over the railing slightly. “So what are you up to do?”

_Oh you know, just being a total stalker and waiting out here on the slight possibility that you may show up too._ Dan thought. He obviously couldn’t say that, so he oupted for, “Just stargazing,” and silently hoped Phil bought it.

He must have been convincing enough, as Phil looked up towards the sky and smiled. “Yeah, It’s a lovely night for that isn’t it?” 

Dan hesitated before shyly asking, “Um… would you like to join me maybe?”

“Alright,” Phil replied slowly as he looked at him. “You come up here though, we’ll have a better view if we’re up higher.”

“Oh, yeah, right! I’ll be right up!” Dan said energetically before heading for the door. 

“Wait!” Phil called out.

Dan poked his head back nervously. “Yeah?”

“I haven’t told you my apartment number yet, silly,” he said gently.

Dan suddenly found himself quite embarrassed and he brought his hand to his forehead. “Right, that would be helpful.”

Phil chuckled slightly, “No worries, it’s 22D. See you soon!”

“See you.”

Dan was halfway up the staircase when he began to regret not changing out of his pajamas. He considered going back to change, yet came to the conclusion that he would rather toss himself down the fifty something stairs than climb them again. Fortunately, Phil opened the door in a similar state; cookie monster pants and a soft pink t-shirt. 

“Come in!” He called as he gestured towards his colorfully lit apartment. 

Strings dawning fairy lights of all different colors hung in neat rows across the ceiling, and cutesy memorabilia seemed to invade every corner of the flat. Framed posters hung on the walls and plushies lined the bookshelves

“Fond of Buffy?” Dan asked jocosely as he walked towards a framed poster of Sarah Michelle Gellar. 

“A bit.” Phil smiled and a bit of his tongue peaked out. It was cute. Not that Dan was paying attention to that. “Would you like some warm milk or a tea or something?”

Dan waved his hand and shook his head a bit, “Oh don’t put yourself out I’m alright.”

Phil shrugged and stepped into the kitchen to put the kettle on for himself. 

Dan bit his lip, “I’m sorry but could I actually get a tea? Green if you have it?”

“No problem!” Phil called back with alacrity. 

As he prepared the beverages, he caught glimpses of Dan out the corner of his eye. He watched as he inspected the various paintings that hung alongs the walls. Dan stopped at each one for several seconds, as if he was prepared to critique the pieces (Phil was afraid he might).

“Did you do all of these? Paint them I mean,” He asked as he stared intenetly at a particular landscape of a flowery meadow.

Phil, pretending not to have just been spying, looked over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he replied nonchalantly, “It’s kind of lame to have so many in my own apartment I guess.”

“No, no,” Dan turned his head and waved his hands slightly in front of him. “That’s not what I meant I-- they’re beautiful, really.” 

“Thank you, Dan.” Phil walked towards him carrying two cups of tea in animal shaped mugs. “Here, yours is the kitten, sorry I should have asked which you prefer.”

The brunette laughed a bit, “It’s fine, the owl suits you.”

They found themselves still sitting on Phil’s terrace table set an hour later. Cups empty and hearts beating.

“So you’re a professional musician, and your favorite musical artist is _Kanye West?_ ” Phil asked incredulously. 

“Have you listened to his music? I mean _really_ listened, it’s pretty revolutionary stuff,” Dan replied, and Phil was only half sure he was joking. 

“Didn’t he have that whole break down and cancel his tour and then get hospitalized a while ago? Isn’t he kind of insane?”

“Oh don’t get me wrong he’s a shitty person, but he’s… certainly interesting,” Dan shrugged.

This brought forth a burst of laughter from the other man, “The hell does that even mean?” 

“Phil, ninety percent of the time I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about.”

“You just sort of get used to it I guess?” Phil asked gingerly.

Dan smiled a bit, “Yeah, I guess.”

-

Phil came back to Dan’s flat one night. He showed up a bit unexpectedly, but Dan was far too flustered to mind. Phil noticed it was considerably tidier than the first time he visited, the walls were still invaded by sheets of piano music, which in turn were covered in messy notes and markings, yet there were less of them, and the floor was now cleared. 

Dan blushed when Phil commented on this, “It’s not for you,” he said with faux causality. 

Phil half-scoffed, half-laughed, as he assured that he never implied anything of the sort.

“I just couldn’t think straight with all the clutter,” Dan shrugged. He then walked over to the grand piano and began dusting off the music rack and rearranging the miniature knick-knacks lined up across the edges of the lid. 

"Do you think you could maybe play me something?" Phil inquired gently, as he took a seat on the opposite side of the bench. 

"Of course!" Dan replied, a bit too eagerly, he afterwards thought. "Any requests?" he asked in slightly more reserved tone. 

"Could you play the one that goes like this? ‘duh duh duh duh duh da da da dum dum da duh dum’," Phil muttered along, as he messily dragged his fingers back and forth between the E and D# keys. After a few notes, the melody fell apart, and he looked back at Dan with a shy smile.

"Für Elise?" He asked with a bit of laughter. 

"Yeah, that one," Phil couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed at his previously displayed ignorance, but all thoughts evaded his mind once Dan began to play.

Contrarily to Phil's choppy and uncertain attempts, Dan's playing was the embodiment of grace and elegance. His hands floated swiftly across the keys and Phil took note of the emotion that channeled through his features with each sound. 

He couldn't help but be left looking at the pianist with the dumbest, most awestruck expression on his face as he finished. 

"Woah, that was incredible," he said, shaking his head slightly as to snap himself out of his engrossment, "you're incredible!"

Dan's cheeks flushed slightly as he readjusted his hair. "Oh please, any twelve year old could do that." 

Phil found this humbleness endearing and leaned his chin into his palm. "Well, you're the best pianist I know anyways."

"Yeah?"

Phil nodded.

“Well if we’re talking Beethoven, my favorite to play is probably Moonlit Sonata,” Dan started playing slowly, his eyes were closed, but his hands payed the utmost attention to each beat. 

Phil rested his cheek on his palm, and fluttered his eyes shut as he listened.

His eyes were quickly snapped open however, by animated speaking once Dan finished. “Although, I think I prefer Tchaikovsky or Chopin over that, you see--” 

Seeing Dan get so excited and speak so devotedly about music was quite a sight, Phil thought, and hearing him actually play was one of the loveliest experiences he could hope to witness.

-

**iii**  
“Why did you decide to start playing piano?” Phil asked one evening. His voice seemed to emit warmth as it floated throughout the air.

The midnight congregations had soon become routine for the two artists. The pair discussed lovely things in hushed voices over tea and furtive gazes, and although they weren't hiding from anyone in particular, the clandestine aura of it all was certainly entrancing. 

The breeze blew past the growing blush on Dan’s cheek and he let out a fickle laugh. “Um, it’s a bit silly.”

“Aw, Dan, I won’t laugh,” he raised his eyebrows a bit, “Promise.”

“Alright, uh, so you know Arthur right?”

“The aardvark?”

“Yeah… when I was younger, I always thought it was really cool how he could play piano.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dan retorted in a tone meant to be exacerbated that came across more fond than anything. 

“I think that’s sweet honestly,” Phil replied in a more serious tone. “I don’t really have a cool painter origin story, I’ve just sort of always just done it. You know?”

“I think in a way that’s even more cool. You’ve got that whole enigmatic artist vibe.”

Phil carried this with him as he lay himself to bed that night. _enigmatic_. Certainly no one had ever described him like that before. It was very misleading he thought. He didn’t find himself particularly mysterious or interesting, but something about Dan thinking so made him a bit giddy. 

_Enigmatic_ was mysterious, interesting. _Enigmatic_ was something you wanted to know more about. _Enigmatic_. 

-

 

**dan howell**

**2:37 p.m.** hey i thought it’d be kind of fun to do something this weekend  
**2:37 p.m.** like go to a museum or something?? If you want i mean

**2:49 p.m.** yeah that sounds great!!

 

It was strange to say, but within the few months he had known Phil, Dan had rarely seen him in the daylight (most likely a vampire he decided). Their meetings usually consisted of moonlight discussions of art and philosophy, or sipping tea beneath the stars. There was simply something about the night that suited their vibe. 

They decided it’d work best with their schedules to meet at the museum. After changing his shirt a dozen times before settling on a black sweater and messing with his hair for several minutes before deciding to leave it curly, Dan hurried to the train station. 

Sliding his earbuds in, Dan took his place on the train. He slightly held onto one of the polls before remembering how many different types of bacteria probably were holding on as well. He subconsciously wiped his hand on his shirt and sighed. He silently hoped that he didn’t look make a fool of himself at the museum. It wasn’t as if he knew nothing about art, he had studied the impressionists and basic art history, but Phil was sure to be an expert. Dan then remembered Phil’s description of Für Elise and felt a bit better.

When he arrived at the museum, Phil was waiting by the doors. “Hey, have you been here long? Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Dan,” he replied with a smile, “shall we go in?” 

“I suppose we shall.” 

Art of every form flooded the inside. Paintings with swirls and hues of every sort graced the walls, marble sculptures that captured things indistinguishable from petrification sat on the floors, and faint sounds of music fell down from the roof like a sudden drizzle of sound and beauty. 

Surveying the crowd, Dan determined that the hit fit in splendidly amongst the general aura of pretension. Glancing to his left, Phil appeared transfixed on a particular Monet painting. 

“Cafe Terrace at Night,” he explained, “It’s one of my favorites actually. The yellow light contrasting with the blue sky and meeting upon the wall. It sounds silly, but it always leaves me with some strange impression.”

“I guess that’s why they’re called Impressionists, eh?” Dan responded cheekily.

Phil smiled and pushed his shoulder. “You’re an idiot, Dan.” 

“Trust me. I know this.” 

The couple spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering around the museum, absorbing as much as their eyes and hearts could allow. At one point, the facility's pianist got up for a presumed break. At this, Phil immediately dragged Dan towards the piano.

“I think,” he said coyly, “that you should play something.” 

“I’m pretty sure that security guard down there wouldn’t be as thrilled at that idea,” Dan apprehensively replied. 

“Oh come on, trust me, they only care about people tampering with the art. Besides, I’ll bet you’re way better than that guy!” 

Rolling his eyes, Dan begrudgingly approached the piano. 

“For me?” Phil said in a faux sappy voice. 

Dan thought about arguing, but then he thought about how complying with his request was sure to bring a brilliant smile to Phil’s face. Still thinking of the latter, he shook his head slightly and began to play. 

At once, notes poured from his fingertips. Each as delicate and beautiful as a leaf floating off an autumn tree, and yet as moving as the wind which made it so. A small crowd gathered around as he continued. Each silently observing. Consuming another piece of art amongst a sundry. It was, after all, what they each came there for. Art, even intangible, Phil thought, was no less valid in itself than in any medium. And, as Dan had predicted, he smiled. 

“Alright,” started Phil on the way out, “I spent all day naming paintings for you. Enlighten me, what did you play in there?”  
“Uh, it was, it was actually one of my own compositions,” he replied casually. Or, at least trying to sound so. 

Dan thought he noticed Phil’s eyes light up a bit as he said, “Dan, really?”

“Uh, yep.”

Dan braced himself for a forced compliment. A synthetic display of awe that was surely over-exaggerated and under-believed. 

However, after a moment’s pause, Dan turned his head and Phil simply said, “you’ll play it for me again sometime, yeah?”

“Of course.”

-

At first, Phil considered writing a letter. It was certainly a romantic idea. Words were sure to put his feelings into perspective. Words with their varying connotations and tones. Words that could mean seemingly nothing and everything tied together with perfunctory punctuation and a signature at the bottom. Yet words had never been his strong suit. 

Following a sundry of attempts to get past the first few words, ( _I have a confession,_ they read. _I have a confession,_ so disgustingly saccharine. How could face himself as someone who would write such a thing?) he gave up. 

When he was finished giving up, he went to the terrace to clear his head. The familiar sounds of Dan’s menstrations floated through the breeze. He turned his head to find a picture of the pianist. Caressing the keys in the fading sunlight.

_What else could I possibly give him?_ Phil realized. And with this he retrieved his renegade pink pastel, and began. 

 

**iv**

Two weeks later Phil stood at Dan’s door. He held something in his arm. He closed his eyes as he knocked on the door. The something in his arm felt heavier. 

“Hey, what’s up? Oh, wanna come in?” Dan smiled with voice more than his mouth as he held open the door. 

“This is for you.” Phil said before he could be asked. He handed the canvas over. Hands shaking slightly. Heart beating in a way so that he felt it with in the roots of his teeth, and down in the tips of his fingernails. 

Dan held it in his hands and poured his eyes over each brushstroke, every little detail. Although he didn’t recognize it, he drew his eyes across the pink swirls in the backdrop, created by the same oil pastel that once fell on his head. All accenting the silhouette of a man playing piano, with fading light in the background. _A Confession._

“It’s me,” Dan said quietly. 

“Yeah.” Phil sighed and focused his interest on something on the floorboards. 

“So, uh, let me show you something?” Dan asked. Although it felt more like a statement. as without for a response, he walked across the room and began shuffling papers around. Phil recalled the first time he had visited. The room being so enveloped by sheets of music you may have assumed it as part of the original architecture. It has always been so much neater since that first visit. Something had shifted perhaps, the need, or desire, to make room for something. To make space for someone else. 

Presumably finding what he was looking for, Dan carried it with him to the piano. He sat down, and with a trembling in his hands paralleling that of his company, he began to play. 

As Dan began to play, Phil began to listen, and as he continued to listen he began to realize. He began to realize a few things. He began to realize the capacity to which another’s art could touch him, and he began to realize that he had inspired something. He wasn’t trying to be vain or presumptuous, but could hear himself between the notes, and it was not an ignorable sound at all. He took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes for a moment, attempting to shut off all of his other senses, and fully immerse himself in sound. 

And as the last note faded out, decibels decreasing, dissolving into the air, “It’s you.”

Phil breathed, and he understood. He sat down alongside his muse, and he placed his hand on top of his.

**Author's Note:**

> so i've been working on this basically my entire sophomore year? it was so nice to have something to come back to when school or just life in general was stressful. it's honestly one of my favorite things i've written and i'm quite proud of it! thank you so very much for reading and i hope you loved it as much as i did! 
> 
> come say hi at spaceclub.tumblr.com !
> 
> \- shea 
> 
> p.s. special thanks to my very best friend nita for letting me talk about this little idea all year <3


End file.
